


Whumptober 2020 - Leverage Edition

by luninosity



Series: Whumptober 2020 [5]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Multi, Power Outage, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27270553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: They’re in the middle of watchingRatatouille,because Parker’s never seen it and Hardison likes Pixar and Eliot can quietly critique animated knife skills in his head but say nothing, when the power goes out.For theme No 27. OK, WHO HAD NATURAL DISASTERS ON THEIR 2020 BINGO CARD?  - prompt: Power Outage
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Series: Whumptober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986763
Comments: 33
Kudos: 125
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Whumptober 2020 - Leverage Edition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LifeLover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LifeLover/gifts).



> I've never actually written Leverage fic before - though I do love our OT3! - but a friend asked if I would, as a birthday-present, so...here you go! <3

They’re in the middle of watching _Ratatouille_ , because Parker’s never seen it and Hardison likes Pixar and Eliot can quietly critique animated knife skills in his head but say nothing, when the power goes out. There’s a crash and a boom of thunder and a whip of wind, rain hammering down, and just like that, snap, it’s all dark.

“Oh man,” Hardison says, “oh, come on, no,” and he’s sitting up and reaching for a laptop or two as if that’ll do anything, dislodging their comfortable pile of lounging bodies and blankets and a popcorn bowl flawlessly balanced on Parker’s knee.

Or he would be disrupting it all, if Eliot hadn’t expected the motion, hadn’t moved in turn, catching the bowl, shifting to redistribute weight and free a blanket. He sets the bowl down as his eyes adjust to the dark; he’s always been good at seeing in it, though of course they’re all three not bad at that. Good at improvising, adapting, new environments.

Parker, distressed, is on her feet. Even in the dark she’s quick and feline, poised to move. “Who could—”

“—find us here?” Hardison checks the battery on a phone, sets it down, gets up as well: catching her hands as they move, offering reassurance and being reassured in turn. “Nobody. I swear. Nobody did this _to_ us. This’s our place. I’ve got that taken care of.”

Their place. Their home: the three of them, when they’d become a them at last. Eliot can shut his eyes and recall with perfect clarity the way Parker and Hardison had shown him around, so excited; the way he’d smiled and tried so hard to be excited for them, for their life together, the happiness they deserved, while he’d known he’d be the one leaving and walking away into the cold, leaving his heart with both of them, knowing they’d never know, and that’d be fine, he could live with that as long as they were happy, he could take anything if—

He can recall the way they’d each taken one of his hands, and the way they’d leaned in to kiss him, easy as breathing, easy as if it could all be simple, easy if he could believe they had room to spare for him.

This is your home _too_ , Parker had said, eyes wide, surprised that Eliot hadn’t understood this: we found it for us. And Hardison had reached out and drawn him close, and Eliot had gone willingly, because they wanted him, because he didn’t believe it, because they wanted this here and now and he’ll always say yes even if they’ll look at him in the morning and say that was enough, curiosity satisfied, time to go. He’ll say yes to them even if it kills him.

He’s somehow still here, three months after that.

He gets up as well, now, in the dark. Parker’s pacing and irritated; none of her best acrobatic skills are of use here, nothing to steal or dare or leap from. Hardison’s annoyed at the power outage but coping by talking to her and checking all his backups and complaining about the timing and the lack of ability to see.

That, at least, Eliot can do something about.

He leaves them to find balance in each other; he has a number of various types of emergency stashes hidden in multiple places around the house, most of which Parker and Hardison know about, some they don’t. He never wants to be unprepared; he never wants to be unable to defend them. He finds candles, real and LED; he finds flashlights, and battery packs, and, after a moment’s thought, some chocolate.

He catches them both looking at him, and then at each other, when he comes back into the living room; he says nothing—no need; he doesn’t need anything, he’s just fine if they’re also fine—and only starts setting out candles, lighting them, turning them on if they’re artificial.

Light blooms through the darkness. From tabletops, shelves, the fireplace, kitchen counters. In white and gold, honey and amber, warm and soft and clear and bright: shades of illumination sweep out and curve into quiet safe globes and spheres. They push back the dark, befriend it, share the night: layers of luminosity, brighter and dimmer, overlapping.

He sets out a few battery packs in case Hardison needs them. He crosses over to them, or a few steps away, and offers the box. “Here.”

Parker takes it. Opens it. “Magic chocolate! You found it in the dark!” The small shiny truffles beam up, bathed in candlelight.

“When’d you buy chocolate?” Hardison takes one. His eyebrows go up. “You got the good kind, too.”

“Made,” Eliot says, not offended but with an odd little feeling in his chest, a pang that’s not really hurt. “A while ago. Just practicing. There’s some with orange zest, some with pink pepper, some with walnut cream.”

Hardison looks at him for a minute. Light caresses his cheekbone, the side of his face, the tilt of his head; Eliot wants to touch him. That’s just a want, though, no practical reason; no invitation, anyway.

In defiance of the want, he says, “I can make a fire, too. If it’s gonna get cold. No telling how long it’ll be out.”

Parker licks chocolate from a fingertip and looks up. “He didn’t mean he thought you didn’t know how to make chocolate. He meant these are really good.”

“I know,” Eliot says.

“Eliot,” Hardison says.

“I can get more blankets,” Eliot says, “too.”

“Come here,” Hardison says, and that’s somewhere between an order and a joke, the kind of flippant banter they toss back and forth without thinking; but it’s also the tone that means _this is important, you need to listen, something might blow up if you don’t_ , so Eliot finds himself taking a step that way without thinking, because he trusts Hardison and Parker without hesitation, no matter what might explode.

Rain drums across the world, over rooftops and streets and balconies. Eliot’s never liked fighting in rain. Too slippery. Unpredictable.

It’s not bad, sometimes, for concealment. The noisy sheets of water can hide sound and motion, and that can be an advantage. Of course, it’s an advantage for the other side, too.

Hardison puts an arm around him, folds him in close. The gesture’s fluid, natural, no hesitation about affection. Eliot leans into it because he can’t not, just for a second.

He’s allowed that much. They’re all comfortable with each other; they have to be, in the field, and they relax that way as well.

On the couch. In the bed. Because he’s somehow been invited in, touched and kissed and made to feel pleasure, because they asked.

Someday they’ll stop asking, stop wanting. He gets that. He understands. He won’t ask for anything more than they give.

But here and now the world’s full of mingled light and dark, and Hardison’s body’s solid and strong and firm, and so Eliot _does_ let himself lean in, a moment like the balance of candlegleam and shadow, suspended between realities. He’s cared for them, the people he loves. He’s found them light and warmth and sugar. That’s all he needs, really. He’s good, knowing that.

“Eliot,” Hardison says again, and sighs. He’s tipped his head to rest against Eliot’s; his breath brushes Eliot’s hair. “I can hear you thinking about what else you can do.”

“Someone’s gotta be the competent one,” Eliot mutters. The joke’s halfhearted, and they all let it go.

Parker slips up on his other side and puts an arm around his waist and one around Hardison’s, which means they’re all now randomly standing in the living room holding each other. Eliot should move, should go check a circuit breaker or make that fire or keep a guard on a window in case this wasn’t a random outage. He doesn’t need comforting.

He doesn’t move.

The rain pounds harder over glass windowpanes and roof-tiles and the wood of the balcony railing.

“We know you love us,” Parker says, eyes all earnest, face all honest. She doesn’t hide from saying it, blunt as ever. “Why don’t you know it? About us?”

“Because it’s tough.” It’s Hardison who answers, hand touching Eliot’s face, cupping Eliot’s cheek; and Eliot should run, should back away, should take himself out of this circle of affection before he breaks it with clumsy strength and fists and brute force…

He still doesn’t move.

“We love you.” Hardison uses the hand to tip Eliot’s face up, and kisses him: a kiss like security, like certainty, like commitment to a plan. The kiss tastes like chocolate and oranges, and Hardison’s mouth’s warm and commanding, not aggressive but confident in the claiming. Eliot does not tremble, because he _doesn’t_ , but it’s so close to everything he wants, too close to fracture-points and breaking joints—

Hardison draws back. Searches his face. “Eliot, we love you because you’re you. Because you’re the one who always has our backs—”

“Or our fronts!” Parker adds brightly. “Or our sides, or—”

“—and you jump in and fight for us, you take hits for us, over and over. And then you come home when we ask, and you find candles when we’re both busy complaining.” Hardison touches Eliot’s mouth, this time. “You know you don’t have to earn it, right?”

“I’m just here,” Eliot says. “I’m just trying to make everything, y’know, good. What I do. Hit things, fix things, cook things.” Hardison’s fingertip’s distracting. It taps him on the nose, almost a scolding, then brushes his cheekbone, the spot where his eyelashes land when he blinks, the corner of his eye. He absolutely does not want to cry, to beg for more touches, to ask for more words that hold promises.

“Sometimes, yeah. You do all those things. You do them all for us.” Hardison glances over. “Parker, help me out here.”

She bounces up to kiss him, swift as a sparrow. Then says, “Tripods are more stable.”

Eliot blinks. Considers this.

“Wouldn’t work as well without you,” Hardison contributes. “All three legs. Holding us up. It’s not the two of us plus you, it’s all three of us. Otherwise we’d tip over.”

Parker makes a gesture that Eliot guesses is meant to illustrate a loss of balance, and agrees, “Boom.”

“So you get it,” Hardison finishes. “We love you. And you love us. Here, have one of your awesome chocolate things.”

Eliot starts to protest. Finds himself being hand-fed a truffle, because Hardison’s still holding the box.

It’s pretty good, he has to admit.

“Okay,” Hardison says, “come on,” and walks them all back to the couch, and gets them arranged: Eliot squarely in the middle, lying down, being cuddled by them both. He could fight, could resist, could use physical hard-won training to remove himself from the spot.

They drape arms and legs and body weight over and around him. It’s nice. Grounding. Tangible. His heartbeat steadies. His toes feel warm.

He dares to wrap an arm around Parker, to hold Hardison a little closer, in turn.

“Yeah.” Hardison sounds pleased. “Like that. We got you, okay? You don’t have to do anything. You let us do this, right now.”

“You’re _our_ Eliot,” Parker says, and feeds him another chocolate. This one’s got a hint of pepper, smoky and sweet, and it leaves heat and sugar in his mouth. In his gut. In his chest. A pooling glow.

The couch is large and sturdy and doesn’t mind holding all three of them as they tangle themselves together. The rain purrs and leaps, cleansing the night. The power might be out for a while, but they’ve got candles, and back-up generators, and batteries, and blankets, and each other.

They _do_ have each other. Eliot has them, and Parker and Hardison have him too, and so maybe, maybe—

This can work.

Tripods are stable, after all.

He has to clear his throat. “Wouldn’t, um. Wouldn’t want you to tip over. Without me.”

Parker’s hand strokes his hair. “You won’t let us.”

“I won’t,” Eliot tells her, tells them. “Never. I’d catch you.”

“Yep.” Hardison slides a hand under Eliot’s shirt, resting over his stomach, skin to skin. It’s not sexual, not now, at least. Only intimate. Purely present. Feels good there. “We know you would. So let us catch you, too, all right?”

It’s hard but it’s also simple, effortless, a choice that’s not one. This is right; this feels right. Eliot knows about instincts. And he believes—beyond any doubt—that these two, his partners, will catch him.

So that’s the answer. It’s the only possible answer. It’s a loosening, an acceptance, sweet as adrenaline and relief. He starts to say, “Yeah,” and barely gets the first sound out before Parker kisses him, and then Hardison kisses him, and together they taste like chocolate and warmth and balance, held secure between the couch and their bodies and golden light and falling rain.


End file.
